by Jane Adams
John had spent the evening with her and planned to stay over, as he’d drunk a little too much wine. She’d put him up in one of the rooms they kept for the overnight staff.
She padded along the hallway and tapped lightly on the door, then went in.
‘John,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had a call from Terry, he seems pretty upset, something about his mum. I need you to go with me.’
11.15 p.m.
‘I only went to talk to her,’ Judith said softly. ‘I knew about you and that woman. I’d seen you talking to her. Believe me, Terry, all I wanted to do was talk to her. Tell her she wasn’t wanted. That we didn’t need her kind. I went into the house. I’d tried knocking on the door but there was no reply, but I knew she was in there. When I’d come home I’d seen her go inside. So I tried the door.’
She paused, looking up at Terry, fixing him with an intense gaze. ‘I went into the room and I saw her lying there. Blind drunk and I thought, this is the woman who my son looks up to. The woman he’d rather spend time with than me. This disgusting drunk, lying there in her own stink.’
Terry stared at his mother. ‘You killed her?’ he whispered. ‘You killed Theo?’
Judith nodded slowly. ‘It didn’t take much, really, it was so easy. I couldn’t stand to think of her with you.’
‘And Nathan?’ Terry whispered.
Judith looked away.
‘So what happens now?’ Terry asked as his mother was led away. He looked exhausted, Maria thought. Utterly spent.
‘For tonight,’ John said, ‘I can offer you a place to stay. Tomorrow, we can talk it through, decide what’s best.’
Terry nodded. All he really wanted to do now was sleep. His head just couldn’t get around it all.
‘Do you think she did that too?’ he whispered softly. ‘Do you think she killed Nathan?’
Maria clasped his hand gently. ‘I don’t know, Terry,’ she said, meeting John’s eyes. ‘I just don’t know.’
Midnight
Harriman was getting bored. He had wanted to take Mike through his cuttings books, and for a while Mike had listened carefully to all he had to say. It had become clear, though, that it was not what this stupid policeman wanted right then. He had failed to see the significance of it all.
‘Vinnie Vincenza,’ Mike repeated patiently. ‘You were telling me about Vincenza.’
Max sighed, turning his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Vincenza sells pictures,’ he said. ‘He’s a little man, with little ideas, and will never be any more than that.’
‘This woman.’ Mike turned the centrefold picture of Marianne back to face Max and laid the polaroids that Davy had taken beside it. ‘This woman,’ he repeated. ‘Vinnie Vincenza sold her pictures to this filmmaker. This Jake Bowen you told me about?’
Jake’s name caught Max’s attention once again and he smiled sweetly at Mike.
‘Jake is not a little man,’ he said. ‘Not like Vincenza. Jake is a maestro.’ He reached out again for one of the cuttings books. ‘It started with one little film, all those years ago. We were children then, you know, just children, but the vision was there . . .’
* * *
Jake was editing film, making the cuts to the closing sequences.
Marion’s last film was ready for distribution now and he was pleased with it. He’d included something very special in the final run. Those last seconds of film, showing the car well ablaze, Jake had taken with a long lens. He had let his eye rest on the flames, the black smoke billowing through the open window and into the damp air, and then that final moment he had hardly dared to hope would come about when for an instant the smoke had cleared and Jake had seen her face.
Jake sat back and reviewed the end of the kidnap film. He’d finished with Blondie in the cellar, disposed of him earlier with a single shot at point-blank range. Jake had let the blond one watch the preparations. Covering the floor and walls with plastic sheet to make the cleaning up easier. Jake had taken time to explain it to him. How it would be in the end, and had finally got the screams of fear that had eluded him so far.
In the final analysis it had turned out well.
Jake’s mind turned briefly from the job in hand to wonder what Max was telling the police.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Wednesday, 21 December, 8.30 a.m.
They had little sleep that night. Terry had collapsed straight away, but had been awake and restless again an hour later and the adults had fared no better. By the time Mike arrived along with the morning post, they were sitting at the breakfast table feeling very sorry for themselves and Maria knew she had a busy day ahead of her.
‘My mum,’ Terry began. ‘She all right?’
Mike nodded slowly. ‘Your mum was taken to the hospital last night, Terry. We got the doctor in to see her and they decided she’d be better off there.’
‘Which one?’ Terry asked him. He swallowed hard. ‘I mean, can I see her?’
‘I’ll find out what I can this morning. I promise you.’
Terry nodded and fell silent, stirring his tea. Mike began to speak again, wondering what to say to the boy, but Maria shook her head and he left well alone.
‘What’s in the post?’ she said.
John was reading something, his face drawn and pale.
‘John?’
‘It’s from Theo, my dear. Written on the day she died.’ He picked up the padded envelope and glanced at the postmark. ‘Though the package wasn’t posted until Friday.’ He reached inside the envelope. Inside was a video. John laid it on the table.
‘It’s for David,’ he said. ‘A final gift. She says she made this film over thirty years ago when she was just starting out and needed money. She says she wants me to keep it, give it to Davy when . . .’ He paused, then read on:
‘But I’ve never regretted it, John. The girl I starred with went on to take far bigger roles than I did. You might recognize the face. In those days, we all seemed to do at least one blue film. It paid the rent and I’ve never felt ashamed or that I needed to apologize.
‘When I knew that I didn’t have long left, I felt so dreadful, John. Not because death frightens me. It never has. Life has always been the hard bit. But there was Davy and I loved him so much, you know. I always intended to finish things myself, before the pain got too bad. I didn’t want Davy suffering. I wanted him to know me, to remember me, not as I knew I would be in the last days and weeks, but when I was young and vibrant and just starting out.
‘There was a young woman Davy used to know. She’d called a few times and, well, you know how it is, we’d got talking. She told me about a friend of Davy’s who could help me and so I called his friend, Mr Vincenza.’
‘His friend,’ John laughed harshly.
‘And he helped me to make this happen and he had the film transferred on to video for me.’
‘And this is it,’ John said, fingering the video as though he had a precious relic lying on the table.
* * *
Jake woke early, feeling relaxed and content with the world. He had some holiday due to him from his regular job and felt that now would be a good time to take it. Escape from the winter and get some sun. He made a mental note to book the time off later that day.
He’d disposed of Blondie’s body. Jake had been undecided as to what to do with him, but finally decided to take him back where he’d found him. Leave him in the alleyway at the side of the nightclub. Occasionally, but only occasionally, the love of risk got the better of him.
11 a.m.
Morrow led the way, Stein and Price in tow, following the instructions given on Vincenza’s tape.
The search warrant had been issued early. The Vincenza house was impressive. Mock Tudor, complete with swimming-pool and billiard-room. Officers combed the house and grounds but Morrow was going straight for the jugular.
The store room backed on to the billiard-room. A second safe had been sunk into the floor beneath false boards.
Vincenza had the combination but cl
aimed he had no knowledge of what had been left inside. He never looked, he said. His fear of the filmmaker he called Bowen was tangible even through the medium of tape.
Morrow knelt and lifted the boards, took the paper from his pocket and began to turn the dial.
The doorway was narrow. Price leaned against the frame, watching. Stein waited just outside.
‘Right, this is it, boys,’ Morrow said. He sat back on his heels, his heavy body sagging. Then reached down and pulled the door.
A sheet of flame shot through the narrow room and caught Morrow with full force. Threw Price off his feet and backward into the billiard-room. He heard his own voice, screaming, then shouting Charlie Morrow’s name.
Pulling himself to his feet, he struggled forward. The drapes had caught and cardboard boxes piled against the wall. In the centre of the room something still living writhed and fought in agony. Price could hardly breathe. Fire in his lungs, they burned so much. He tried to throw himself towards the thing that burned to pull it free before the fire caught even fiercer hold, but his body didn’t want to move and everything seemed to be so slow.
Somehow, he grabbed Charlie Morrow’s arm, screaming as the fire bit naked hands. Beside him, Stein had hold of him the other side and they dragged the big man from the room. Then Price fell to the floor, retching, hardly able to breathe, dimly aware that there were others now, helping him outside.
It was rigged, the voice whispered in his head. It was bloody rigged.
* * *
At a Travel Inn on the M25 Mr John Phillips checked in for the night. The news was full of it. The arrest of the Norwich rapist. The big copper who’d been blown up in the raid on Vincenza’s house, they didn’t know if he would live or die, it said.
Jake Bowen smiled. Pity he wasn’t there, he thought. It would have made fantastic film.
PART TWO
1999
18 June, 1999
They had been forced to leave the car parked at the head of the lane and carry their equipment along the narrow track.
From the top of the hill they got a view across the valley for the first time, the high hedges either side of the road having blocked any sight of the landscape as they had driven up. It was a beautiful but claustrophobic place.
Liz pointed across to the opposite rise. ‘That’s the farm where we asked directions. See, it’s marked on the map and this’ — she nodded towards the house at the side of the lane — ‘must be the Jacksons’ place.’
Macey nodded, swinging the camera bag across his shoulder. ‘Through there,’ he said, pointing to a narrow opening between the trees.
Neither spoke as they pushed their way along what was little more than a rabbit track through a tangle of trees and across a plank bridge over a tiny stream. They reached the second stile, beyond which was Forestry Commission land. Here, they both paused. Liz exchanged a glance with Macey, not needing to say a word. The tip-off had come in a couple of hours before. If this was for real then, they had a very good idea of who had brought them to this place and suddenly, being here, just the two of them, didn’t seem too bright.
‘Maybe we should have waited for the police,’ Liz suggested tentatively.
Macey shook his head. ‘And have them get here to find it’s all a wind-up?’
Liz gave him a shrewd look. Macey didn’t believe the hoax theory any more than she did. He just wanted to be there first, before the arrival of the local police pushed them back behind the usual barriers. Macey had followed every angle of the story as it had been reported in the nationals and now this had happened on his home ground. If it was for real, it could be his break into the big time.
Macey made the first move, handing his equipment to Liz while he eased himself over the stile, then helping her across. Behind them, the mixed woodland they had left was alive with the noise and rustling of wildlife. Here, in this dimly lit conifer plantation, there was an uncanny stillness.
‘I don’t like this place,’ Liz whispered, expecting one of Macey’s usual acerbic rejoinders. But for once the big man was silent.
They looked around. Behind them, the hill continued to rise, densely planted and very dark. The path itself was wider than it had been but dropped off to the right, falling down the hill into a steep gully.
Below, in the gully, there was only a chaos of fallen trees and deeply channelled earth eroded by last winter’s rains. Liz looked again at the sketch map. This was definitely the place.
She and Macey began to scramble down. It took all their attention just to keep their footing and protect their camera equipment from being slammed against the rough ground and exposed roots. They did not see it until the trees thinned and the scene was suddenly there, exposed in all its terrible beauty.
The body lay, naked, on a rough bed of fallen branches and fresh flowers. All around, on every low branch, every niche that could be used, stood tiny candles, their white stems gleaming in the flickering light.
Chapter One
Mike Croft turned away from the crime scene and walked along the head of the gully towards the second stile. Beyond that, the path broadened out, allowing an avenue of sunlight to break through between the tall trees. He climbed over the stile, relieved to get out of the darkness and into the warmth of the early summer’s day. The sudden heat on his back was enough to persuade him out of his jacket.
He held a large-scale OS map in his hand and referred to it now. Further along, the path apparently turned into a gated road leading back towards Honiton.
Which way had Jake Bowen come in? Mike wondered. The narrow road and rabbit path that Macey and Liz Corran had taken or this other road? And had the woman been alive when he brought her here?
Mike leaned heavily against the fence post next to the stile, facing into the sun. This last six months, he felt, he’d done nothing but live and breathe Jake Bowen, especially since he’d been seconded to the operation eight weeks ago, along with practically anyone who’d ever had dealings with the killer. Mike had found himself dragged over half the country, chasing one short-lived lead after another, finally fetching up here — the middle of nowhere and a long way from home.
‘Penny for them?’
Mike turned with a slight smile. ‘Not worth it, sir. I was trying to work out the last time I had a weekend off.’
Chief Superintendent Mark Peterson returned the smile. ‘Probably about the same time I did,’ he said. ‘And it’s not likely to be this weekend either.’
‘No, I suppose not. I’d arranged for Maria to come down.’
‘Ah. I’ll tell our man to improve his timing.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Look, Mike, get your lady to come anyway. Unless something breaks fast, you’ll be able to wangle a couple of hours free.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’
Peterson leaned against the fence and gazed out, eyes squinting, into the sunny space between the trees.
‘I’ve got someone walking in from the other end, looking for tyre tracks, anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Doubt they’ll find anything. Last two weeks have been too damned dry. I asked one of the locals,’ Mike added by way of explanation.
‘You been down there yet?’ Peterson gestured towards the gully.
‘Briefly. I came back up top, let the photographer and SOCO do their bit. There’s enough bodies down there as it is.’
Peterson laughed gruffly at the unintended humour. ‘We’d better get back and join them,’ he said, ‘they’ve just warned me the surgeon’s on his way.’
A sound overhead made both men look up sharply. A squirrel, its tail flying out behind it, leapt between trees. Peterson laughed again. There was relief in the sound of it. ‘You know, Mike. I’m not a man given to all that much imagination, but if, when we find this bugger, he’s got hooves and a forked tip to his tail, I’m not going to be surprised.’
A shout from behind them in the gully told them that the police surgeon had arrived. Mike eased himself over the stile and they made their way back alo
ng the path. Peterson’s comment had come as no surprise; everyone was as jumpy as hell. He glanced sideways. The man’s rather round face, reddened by too much sun, had gained lines these last weeks. Peterson was a robust man, taller than Mike’s six two and heavier, but the strain of the Bowen hunt was beginning to tell on him and recently he seemed to have shrunk in on himself.
Some fifteen years older than Mike, Peterson was a career copper who’d made it up through the ranks. His present title, Chief Super; was being phased out in one of the ‘reforms’ sweeping through the service and men like Peterson, who seemed to belong to another time, were finding it hard to make their way in the new order. Promoted sideways to head up ‘Operation Final Frame’ — Mike wondered who made these names up — this was likely to be the last thing Peterson would see through before he retired.
DI Mike Croft had grown to like and respect the man a great deal and knew it was an opinion largely shared by the rest of the team. Under other circumstances, Mike would have enjoyed working with this large, bluff man with the overgrown moustache. Under these circumstances, Mike wished himself anywhere but here.
It was not an easy scramble down into the gully. Tree roots reaching from the dry ground and hard, rutted furrows cut by the last heavy rains then dried by the summer heat threatened to undermine every step. The scene, when they reached bottom, was pretty much as Macey and Liz had viewed it. It looked, thought Mike, like a scene from a low-budget horror flick, but this was real. The woman’s long hair was carefully combed out across the bed of flowers on which she lay, her hands folded prayerfully between her breasts, and a long, thin line of blood had flowed from the artery in her throat down across the flowers. White roses stained a rusty brown.
‘Bled her like a bloody pig,’ Peterson said.
Chapter Two
‘Death confirmed at four thirty-five p.m., Friday 18 June. And before you ask, a quick estimate just from body temperature, ambient conditions and all that rot, I’d say she’s been dead maybe four, five hours.’
